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This is a question Bad Smells

"I once left the world's stinkiest guff in a lift before sending it down to a group of Germans, all bustling to be first in the doors upon its arrival," giggles Boarders. Tell us your stories involving farts, noxious gasses and unpleasant smells.

(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 11:56)
Pages: Popular, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

you know that thing where you can stand the smell of your own guffs, but not other peoples'?
So you can drop the most rancid guinness fart in the world and sit there quite happily while everyone else is retching?

Once at work, I popped into the loo to strain my greens and was greeted by the smell of a previous occupant's sit down visit. What utterly freaked me out was that although the farty smell was clearly not my own, I could quite happily stand to smell it. It smelled like I'd done it.

I'd unwittingly stumbled on my very own guffleganger. I am to this day a little disturbed by the incident.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 16:21, 12 replies)
I used to commute from Ealing to Central London every day on the central line
My journey would typically take 45mins, depending on changes. On the way home, I'd try and get in the same carriage each time as it sped my exit from the station at my 'home' end.
At the time, the trains on that line were relatively new, and comparatively clean. However in the summer they could get rather warm, so much so that if it was summer and I couldn't get a seat, I'd try and stand at the front of a carriage near the door, so I could get the breeze from the open window.
For one summer, every evening I got on the train at Tottenham Court Road, I'd be joined by a corpulent, greasy bloke who always wore the same clothes - shiny polyester tracksuit bottoms and a polyester mesh american football top. Every day he would sit in the centre of the bank of seats, with his legs spread, and his arms draped over the backs of the seats, and, for the entire length of the journey would exude a mind-boggling stench of BO and knobcheese. The smell was so bad that I could taste lumps of it on the back of my tongue. He would sit there with a look of complete contentment as he surveyed everyone else in the carriage's distinct discomfort at the sheer horror of his odour. The fat fucking cunt.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 16:14, Reply)

(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 16:01, 1 reply)
Mr Charlie has some kind of dead animal decomposition bio-reactor installed in his rear end -
- and it frequently emits the foulest stenches ever to have wrought havoc upon the innocent receptors of the mammalian nose. Of late, however, I have trained him.

He now goes into the hallway to make his gaseous utterances when they are due, but unfortunately this does not always work. So viscous are his farts that they are brought in behind him when he returns to the room, as if still attached to his anus by a bungee cord. And there they will bounce around, searing nostrils and teasing uvulas for a good three minutes or so.

I recall there was one night before his training had begun, when I had partially drifted off to sleep beside my love and he 'let one go'. This might have been fine, if his bum gas had been sealed beneath the covers and I already unconscious, but sadly the eye-burning fumes had raised the duvet enough for the effluvium to be liberated. To compound matters, it was the middle of the summer, and there was a fan switched on to blow directly at the bed. Instead of blasting the horrors away, the airflow merely trapped the defilement in the air above our heads, and it proceeded to rain its toxic fallout upon us. An open Dutch Oven, if you will.

I still remember how my eyes watered in a vain effort to protect themselves from the acid breeze, my stomach tried to eject everything it still held from the meal I had consumed not three hours previously, and my throat tightened from some sort of inflammatory, asthmatic reaction. No amount of window or door flapping would free me of the air-borne sewage, and all the while Mr Charlie lay in my bed giggling as if he had planned this with the devil and now shared his mirth with the creature at his shoulder.

I have since tried revenge bottom belches, but the worst flavour I can come up with is roast chicken, and I simply cannot produce it in the same volumes as he :( No one ever talks about the glass ceiling of flatulence, or how vile your gut needs to be to shatter it.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 15:36, 6 replies)
I was Christmas shopping in town and popped into Lush (VERY fragrant soap shop - bath bombs etc) to buy my Mum some smellies as a gift.

Having drank a lot of Guinness and eaten 'dirty food' the night before, my bowels were in a bit of a state and I inadvertently emitted a 'silent but violent' guff while browsing the gift boxes.

Within moments, I heard someone shout, "What the fuck is THAT?" and almost immediately another voice shouted, "JESUS CHRIST!".

People started backing away from me like a terrified demented mob.

The reason I'm so pleased about that fart is that you can smell Lush from 2 streets away and my fart cut through all that soapy scent like a knife through butter :D
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 14:05, 8 replies)
if the school caretaker forgets about the bowl of tadpoles you put on the nature table when he closes the school for easter break, they tend to die. this, after 2 weeks, creates a smell so odious and vile that the first girl into the classroom at the start of the new term will almost immediately vomit all over the floor. the next girl in can now smell dead tadpoles and vomit, and so a chain reaction of puking begins.
6 girls sent home, 4 classrooms closed for 2 days until the smell went away and one caretaker seriously reprimanded for allowing the tadpoles to stay there and stink up the place and for not airing the room out.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 13:54, 10 replies)
A friend of mine, L, has been seeing her other half, R, since long before I knew her. On one occasion, she was telling a group of us a story about the first time she and he went camping.

R is lactose intolerant; the merest exposure to lactose means that he's generating foul stenches from his behind for hours. Unbeknownst to either of them, R had eaten something with milk in it at some point in the evening. His insides were beginning to bubble just as he and L turned in for the night.

"I don't believe in any of that race-memory or collective unconscious stuff," L said, "but I am Jewish; and there I was, in a dark, confined space, slowly being gassed..."
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 13:42, 1 reply)
So, first thing in the morning on Sunday.

The sprog's been up at the first hint of dawn, but luckily it had been mutually and non-verbally agreed that it was my turn for a bit of an extra kip, so My Missus, Laura has taken the pooy 'Eraserhead baby' downstairs to watch some TV.

But when I get up - Laura decides, to further my education in all things baby-like, for me to have another go at changing the sprog's nappy (which, although I have done it a few times, I've managed to get out of generally).

No problem, thinks I, I've changed the nappy before when it's been full to overflowing, and couldn't be any harder than that.

So off I hop upstairs, sprog under arm, lie her down on the changing rug and undo the nappy. . . .

...to find the dark horror. Satan would have been proud.

There is black poo, everywhere. Every square millimetre of this nappy is quagmired with evil, with undigested black (beans?) bits in it. The poo covers the nappy, entirely, and stinks worse than anything I have jet to encounter at such close proximity. You could almost see the heat shimmer off it.

As I said, this was on Sunday morning.


The day after Saturday. Which traditionally involves drinking rather substantially.

So - setting the scene: I've got the little 'un, holding her crossed ankles in the air with one hand, her besmeared lower-region hovering inches away from a massive stinky pile of stinking partially digested bum-matter, and barking like a dying rabid dog through heaving so much.

"HuuRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHaagh!!!!" I explained.

"HRRRRRRRRRRRuuughAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!" I repeated for the hard of hearing.

"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-uuuuuurgh ARRGH!!!" I reiterated, eyes filling up due to a combination of highly acidic fumes and wretching.

"Huuuuuuu-rrrrrrrr - LAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRAAAAAAAAA !!!" I screamed, trying to decide what would be harder to clean off the carpet, baby poo, or my breakfast and last nights cider. I could run off, but the sprog would be up straight away, covering the whole of her room in a very innocent but particulary horendous dirty protest. Or I could stay holding onto her ankles and blow chunk after chunk of my OWN rancid ejecta all over the carpet . . .

" LAURA!! HELP!!" I bark once again, face pointing as far away from the offending pile off baby-generated fecal horror as I could manage.

Luckily, help came in the form of the evil-one's mother, and I was able to safely run to the bedroom and stick my head out of the window, where I managed to heave and wretch for a good three more minutes or so.

Luckily I managed to hang on to my Bird's Eye Potato Waffles that morning, but I can still smell the anal swamp terror while typing this . . .
(Names changed, etc)
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 13:34, 12 replies)
Me and the missus were on a city break...
... in Manchester. Don't laugh, it was great. Good food, museums, shows, general good time, including the festival which was on and caused us to see this thing strutting its stuff on Albert Square: youtu.be/oKm2aOd62ZI

We stayed in the ridiculously tall Beetham Tower Hilton, and had just had breakfast or something in the first-floor restaurant and were waiting for the lift to go down to the ground.

Lift doors open. Two giggling blokes totter out of the lift, suppressing belly laughs. We get in, and it becomes obvious why they're amused. One of them has just dropped the mother of all guffs in the lift, and they've just left it there for us to appreciate. It was truly rank. They turn to leave the hotel... and realise with obvious horror that this is not, in fact, the lobby.

Sheepishly, as the doors are closing, they jab the button, and are forced to get back in the little box they've just polluted, and ride in awkward silence the one more floor to the ground with us, the people they'd tried to gas TO DEATH. They weren't laughing any more when they finally got to leave, but me and the missus were. In fact, we laughed about it on and off for most of the rest of the day.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 13:26, 3 replies)
when a girl farts, that's really funny

(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 13:25, 5 replies)
Kitchen sink backed up in three middle of winter,
so I removed the trap under the sink. The trap was coated with rancid, black slime, as was the drainage pipe, with proceeded to spew fetid water all over the kitchen floor.
Borrowed a pipe cleaner from the plumber next door, extracted unhealthy quantities of rancid, black slime. No joy, water not draining.
Started to regret the decking that we'd put down over the patio, got on with removing a couple of planks. Extracted, by hand, a good bucketful of congealed fat, from the drain. The stench of rancid lamb was unmistakable, but a couple of kettles of boiling water later, the blockage was cleared.
Decking restored, I disposed of the foul-smelling, yellowish blockage down the drain in the road - probably not the smartest move, but it became someone else's problem.
Since getting up close and personal with the content of the drains, bad smells don't bother me so much, any more.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 13:22, Reply)
I just farted in a foundry.
It smelt.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 13:12, 3 replies)
Anyone who thinks it is acceptable to eat/cook seafood in the office,
is fucking disgraceful, and should be made to smell my arse for the rest of the working day.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 13:05, Reply)
At work not long ago I went for a piss and some bastard was doing a shit so acrid-smelling
it almost smelled more like puke than shit.

The end.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 13:03, Reply)
Rat nesting in a pile of carrier bags in my kitchen cupboard, discovered on Christmas eve.
When I first opened the door I thought a burglar must have broken in just to do a shit in there.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 13:02, Reply)
Nothing beats the smell of mouse
Got home from first lecture one day when I was a stude. Did chemistry, so 'free hours' were uncommon. On the way home I starting thinking that a bowl of bran flakes with ice cold milk would be just the ticket. Got in, opened the cupboard door and 'hello' I recognise that smell... Ignored it, thinking it was way down on my 'to do' list. Opened what I thought was a virgin box of bran flakes only to be hit with a concentrated lungfull of eau de musculus.

Little fucker had helped himself and left a load of little black mouse shits on the top of the bran flakes. The smell was unbearable, but I did what any self-respecting student would do and got a bread knife and cut the box and inner bag about two inches down from the top and poured out a bowl of delicious flakes and ate a hearty breakfast.

Not really, I just threw out the whole box and marched down to the local indoor market and got a mousetrap. Got the little bastard that night as well; it had just caught him on the tip of his nose and it took a good 15 minutes of 'clickety clack' noises behind the telly as he was trying vainly to escape before he finally expired. the girls I was living with at the time were going mental as well, it made for a glorious cacophany.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 13:01, Reply)

(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 12:55, 3 replies)
A baker's hands.

(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 12:53, 1 reply)
Someone just done a proper eye-melting shit in the work bog and I only went in to wash my hands and then the cleaner turned up and now I bet she thinks it was me.

(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 12:46, 2 replies)
I worked as an estate agent for a while in the 90's, and was showing a repossessed house Houghton Regis, just north of Dunstable. I arrived 10 minutes early to look around, as I hadn't been there before.
The house looked bad. I mean newspaper and pornos all over the floor, holes in walls, a piss soaked mattress (with helpful graffiti next to it with an arrow and the words 'a finely piss soaked mattress').
I made the stupid mistake of opening the oven. Bad idea. Before leaving, the occupants had carefully curled out a turd into a pan and left it to bake. I turned and lost my lunch onto a copy of the Sun and a copy of Fiesta.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 12:30, 5 replies)
I grew up living with
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 12:22, 3 replies)

(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 12:20, Reply)
Grandma's vag
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 12:19, 1 reply)

(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 12:11, Reply)
Funny bits in films make me laugh!
A turd covered in burnt hair! Hahaha!
It's funny because it would actually, really smell bad!

The bog of eternal stench also smells bad.
So do beef flavoured crisps.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 12:10, Reply)
Tramp on the tube.

(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 12:08, Reply)
I imagine Gonz's toilet must be the worst place on earth for odours.

(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 12:07, Reply)
Oh I thought it was over.

(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 12:00, 1 reply)

This question is now closed.

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